Important
by TotallyMarvelousDragon
Summary: Sherlock finds blood in the newly fallen snow - and also love? A one-shot I wrote when it snowed in England.


The first snow of the year had fallen and it was already discoloured by a spray of fresh blood.

The snow was secondary, at least to Sherlock Holmes. The blood was much more interesting. I belonged to a local man, between the age of twenty five or thirty – make that twenty seven – and had been shot, once, between the eyes using a sniper rifle, fired from the roof of a five-story block of flats to the East.

"I'd tell you the details, but I'm sure that's not neccacary."

"Of course it isn't Lestrade, I'm sure I know everything you know and more." Sherlock spoke with minimal respect for the Inspector. "Do you have the ballistics report?"

"We're not trying to find the killer, Sherlock. We've already got him behind bars – he stumbled through some poor old lady's house carrying a sniper rifle."

Sherlock straightened up, looking away from the corpse. "Then what am I needed for?"

"We want to know _why _he was killed."

"Normally that isn't the sort of thing the Police Force care about."

Dr. Watson now stepped forward. He had been standing just behind Sherlock, but now came forward to Lestrade's rescue – he was a veteran in dealing with Sherlock's foul moods as well as an army veteran. "I'm sure you could work it out if you tried. Don't you want to know why?"

"Yes, John, but why do the police care?"

"We want to know where he got the gun. They don't exactly sell those in ASDA."

Sherlock grimaced. "You're still being more thorough than usual. And this case is boring, so I don't see why it deserves my attention." With that he turned up his collar and stormed away.

"Have we finally found a case that even Sherlock can't handle?" John knew his words would be inflammatory.

"I don't know, maybe we should get Anderson down here." Lestrade pulled out his phone.

Sherlock spun around, a snarl on his face. "Anderson? He wouldn't even notice the irritated skin beneath his nose." He dropped to his knees in front of the victim and pulled of his gloves. Resting one hand in the snow, the detective reached into the victim's coat pocket and pulled out a bloody tissue. "Do you really think Anderson would know what this means?"

John sighed. "Sherlock, we don't know what is means."

"I do." Lestrade said. "Sores beneath the nose, a bloody tissue to mop up a nose bleed… this man was a crack addict."

"Exactly. It must be linked – an unpaid debt or-" Sherlock stopped. He rolled back onto his heals and looked at the hand that had been resting in the snow. "Or he happened to be a dealer, who got a taste for his goods."

"What's on your hand?"

"Crack cocaine." Sherlock bounced to his feet and presented the palm of his hand to Lestrade. "Look. I had snow on my hand. Some of it melted away – you can surely see that – but some of it's still on my hand. It should have melted by now." Sherlock returned to the corpse, flipping him over (much to Lestrade's distress) and flipped open the pocket on the opposite side. There, more 'snow' was dusted on the silken lining.

"Wouldn't it be in a bag?"

"No, no. He wasn't stealing whole bags; even he could see it would be too obvious. He'd just take a pinch out of every bag he sold at first, but once he was hooked he'd take more, because a pinch wouldn't be enough. That's when his suppliers started to notice…"

"And who are his suppliers?"

"You remember drug dealers you released Anderson on?"

"You think this is linked?"

"Of course it's linked. The ammunition found at that base Anderson found is the same as was used here, if I remember rightly. Which I do. Which brings me back to the point that Anderson is not suitable for this case, as I just solved this one _and _his in one go. Anything else, Inspector?"

"No, you're done. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Tedious, if you ask me." Sherlock spoke in a disinterested tone. "All too obvious."

"I forget you only get your kicks of psychopaths," Lestrade replied critically.

"They're interesting – more interesting than you. They're actually a challenge to figure out!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if you're a psychopath."

Sherlock groaned in frustration. "We've been over this, Inspector." When Lestrade stayed quiet, Sherlock continued. "High-functioning sociopath? I've said this before. Your memory capacity must be lower than I estimated. Probably taken up by" – Sherlock shot a pointed look at John, "- knowledge of the solar system."

John just shook his head. "We're not having that argument again. Besides, I don't think you're a sociopath."

Lestrade laughed. "Is that meant to be a pick-up line?" His comment was met by blank gazes. "Never mind. Now you better leave, I've got the cleaners coming in a few minutes. And thank you John."

"No problem."

Lestrade regained his serious expression. "Now seriously, go before we make you remove this body."

"He probably wouldn't mind," John muttered.

Sherlock ignored him (outwardly, at least). "I'm a consulting detective, Inspector, not your cleaner."

"It was a joke, Sherlock." Lestrade received another blank look. "I don't even know why I bother."

"Keep it up, Lestrade, and maybe you can be a comedian someday. I never liked them as it is." Sherlock then spun around, leaving the crime scene behind him. John trailed along behind him.

"Sherlock!"

The detective spun round at Dr. Watson's call. "I'm sorry, can't you keep up?" His tone was biting, but he paused and slowed his pace to match John's. The snow muffled the police activity, but the flashing light was reflected, rounding off John's soft face but highlighting Sherlock's sharp features.

"What do you think?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

"About the case? It was simple, not worth a thought."

John sighed. Sherlock would need more of a prompt than that. "Okay, what do you think about… the snow?"

"The snow?" Sherlock glanced at the ground, as if he hadn't noticed it before. "Well, it just means that the temperature is below 0°C despite the cloud cover. Is there anything else?"

"I take it back."

"You take back what?"

"You really are a sociopath."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes at his much-loved blogger. "Oh, you want me to say something _romantic, _don't you?"

"Well, it would be nice…" John hesitated, blushing. "Oh, you make it sound stupid."

"It _is _stupid." Sherlock frowned, but then a smile crept into his expression. "But I'll be a little bit stupid for you. If it makes you more comfortable."

The army doctor shook his head. "Can you say anything without calling me stupid?"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought I'd done well."

"Well… no, you implied… never mind. It'll do." John knew it was a big ask in the first place.

It didn't satisfy Sherlock, though. He'd disappointed John, and he couldn't stand that. "I have another observation. About the snow." He paused to gauge John's reaction. "It makes fascinating patterns in your hair."

Much to Sherlock's pleasure, John smiled. "Oh my god – Sherlock Holmes just said that the snow looked pretty on my hair."

"Is that what I said?"

"It's what you meant."

Sherlock grinned. "At least you're good at that."

"Is that the only thing I'm good at?"

"Well, no…"

"Is that the only thing I'm better then you at?"

There was pause as Sherlock thought. "I can't think of anything else."

John smiled slyly. "Oh, I can."

"Really? And what would that-" John cut off Sherlock with a kiss, wrapping his arms around his waist. Sherlock froze in shock, his arms locking to his side. Slowly, he allowed John's warmth to melt his frozen limbs, hesitantly lifting his hands to John's neck. His lips began to move with John's. The snow continued to fall, the lights continued to flash, and the only consulting detective continued to kiss his precious little blogger.

Sherlock pulled away suddenly, covering his lips and the warm blush on his cheeks. "That was interesting."

John had a smug look on his face. "Was I right?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, probably, though I can't say I've ever experienced my own kiss."

"Can I just win this one?" Sherlock nodded. "And can we both agree that it must have been important?"

"Important."

John took Sherlock's hand. "You told me that you forget anything that isn't important. And you clearly remembered that."

Sherlock laughed. "More important than the solar system."


End file.
